


sweetness

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alpha Natasha Romanov, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Awesome Natasha Romanov, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Beta Pietro Maximoff, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Girls with Guns, Good Sibling Pietro Maximoff, Guns, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Blood, NO NON-CON ACTUALLY HAPPENS THOUGH, Omega Verse, Omega Wanda Maximoff, POV Natasha Romanov, POV Wanda Maximoff, Physical Abuse, Pietro Maximoff Dies, Protective Natasha Romanov, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug, but just to be safe imma put that there, except for, it's just a passive thought in the tail end of one sentence, non-con kissing, non-graphic but it's there, originally rated it teen but i wanna be on the safe side so i upped it to M, that's all, the character in question also doesn't have a plan or anything like that, though it's literally one sentence and it's very non-graphic and indirect, von strucker being a creep, we been knew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27414145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: “He’s dead,” the woman informs Wanda flatly in an un-extraordinarily American accent.Wanda just gapes. This woman—thisalpha—is beautiful, and deadly, and Wanda finds herself both transfixed and terrified all in one.She doesn’t know where she finds the nerve to speak, but a moment later she hears herself choke out a question: “A-Are you going to kill me?”Or: Wanda's an omega. Natasha's an alpha. Can I make it any more obvious?
Relationships: Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 21
Kudos: 248





	sweetness

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags, my dudes! there's no actual r*pe/non-con beyond one non-consensual kiss (NOT between natasha and wanda, don't worry), but i really really really don't want to trigger anyone ever. that's not what i'm trying to do here
> 
> anyways 
> 
> long time no see, huh? i'm not back for sure; things are still really crazy, and i'm still in the thick of an online college semester that's highkey kicking my ass
> 
> i also definitely shouldn't have taken the time to write this because it's 1am and i've been watching cnn for three days straight and i still have a fuckton of homework to do, but i cranked this out and figured i should post it, because i'm pretty happy with how it turned out 
> 
> and who knows, maybe this'll help someone take their mind off the current shitshow that is the world (but specifically the US) right now? i know for me personally, three continuous days of watching them talk about the election nonstop is absolutely frying my brain, so typing this up was a nice break
> 
> what else? hmmm
> 
> oh! i'm still a lazy proofreader (by that i mean i rarely ever do it), so feel free to drop a comment letting me know if you spot any mistakes so that i can fix them!
> 
> also this is like my second time writing a/b/o, but i got a couple requests to write more of it, so please go easy on me!
> 
> (also lowkey i won't lie: a big part of the reason i got inspired to write a good chunk more for this is @lizziechase on tumblr 
> 
> they tagged me in a very nice ask about wandanat they were responding to where they said they follow me solely because of my writing for them! so
> 
> cheers to that you're a real one<3)

**WANDA**

It’s times like these wherein which Wanda can’t help but abhor her omega status with everything she has. 

She wants so badly not to care—to embrace it, even. 

After all, omegas are rare—now more than ever. 

Alphas will pay truly exorbitant amounts in order to own a young, unclaimed, _fertile_ omega such as herself. (Heaven knows that many have already tried.)

It doesn’t mean they’ll be in any way kind, but it nevertheless guarantees a future for the omega in question. And yes, perhaps it's one that consists primarily of being ignored, made to serve as nothing more than a glorified broodmare for the alpha’s offspring; but it’s a future regardless. At the very least, better than death.

Perhaps it’s impertinent—asking for trouble, even—but Wanda doesn’t want that for herself. 

Pietro certainly didn’t. Her beta twin fought tooth and nail to ensure that every last alpha who courted Wanda treated her with nothing less than the utmost respect. He’d challenge them endlessly, snarling and posturing and fighting, making enemy after enemy in the name of Wanda’s honor like he wasn’t afraid of how it might end.

God help him, but he should’ve been. 

He should’ve been terrified going up against alphas twice his size and three times his age, picking fights in public every time Wanda got her ass groped like he wasn’t scared to pay the price for it. 

Scared or not, he paid the price—eventually. 

They say that losing a packmate is like losing a piece of yourself. 

Wanda isn’t an expert in any sense, but she thinks that losing a twin probably hurts a hell of a lot more. 

She thought she was dying when it happened. He was a massive hulking creature of a man, she remembers, with eyes that glowed like molten gold and razor-sharp claws that tore through Pietro’s jugular like it was tissue paper rather than flesh and bone. 

Wanda doesn’t know his name and she doesn’t care to, because in a fraction of a second he stole her world. She has absolutely no interest in giving him another go. 

Most days, she’ll avoid any remembrance of him like the plague. After all, she’s a 24-year-old unmated omega with a ridiculously heavy scent and not a single packmate (blood-related or otherwise) alive to bail her out when things get bad. She has more than enough to worry about on her own. 

Remembering Pietro comes on a special handful of days she selected three fortnights ago, then carved into her skin with a hunting knife not long after. The rest of the time… well. It’s just better that she leaves well enough alone. 

But now, it seems like leaving well enough alone isn’t cutting it anymore. (Honestly, she isn’t sure it ever did.) 

Now, the dire nature of her woeful reality is more garish than ever. It’s all come to a head, it seems, after 100 (or so) profoundly unremarkable days spent living a life best suited to a young, twenty-something beta in a world that didn’t seem quite so scary while the stifling title of ‘omega’ was no longer hers to bear. 

She always knew it wouldn’t be forever, but God, how she wishes it could’ve lasted just a little bit longer.

She knew she shouldn’t have come to America. 

— — 

She wakes feeling lightheaded, wheezing for air. Something thick and firm encircles her throat, constricting her airway such that every breath is small, weak—little more than a puppy-like pant. 

Her hands are sore, streaked with dirt. Her wrists—bound in chains. 

She’s sprawled on a cemented floor, curled in the fetal position. 

Lastly and most concerning of all: she’s completely naked. 

Her muscles ache with every shift like she’s run a hundred miles, but she’s most curious about the restraint pressing around her neck. A brief exploration (hindered by the burning ache in her wrists and fingers) tells her it’s a thick leather collar—the kind that alphas (the more domineering ones, anyhow) bestowed upon their omegas. 

_Fuck_. 

— — 

After what feels like ages, the sound of a lumbering gait (most likely a man’s) descending a creaky wooden staircase snaps her from her reverie. It’s coming from somewhere off to the right, just behind a white drywall divider littered with cigarette-shaped burn marks. 

_Charming_ , Wanda thinks wryly to herself. 

With every heavy-footed step she hears, the rancid stench of _alpha_ seems to intensify a thousand fold. It wreaks absolute havoc on her scattered senses—clogging her constricted airway, making her guts churn with a bone-deep revulsion she can taste like acid on her tongue. 

When he finally appears, it’s almost as much a relief as it is completely terrifying. He’s a tall, fairly average-looking 40-something man with thin downturned lips and dark hair shorn so close to his scalp it appears likened unto a shadow. 

He reeks of something awful (something undeniably _alpha_ ), looks down upon her with eyes a perfect shade of ocean blue, and smiles coldly like he knows something she doesn’t. 

When he speaks, his words are hampered by a thick German accent. “Oh, good. You’re awake.” 

Wanda just glares.

“Willful, too.” He chuckles. The cold look in his eyes remains. “I like that.”

_Fuck_. 

— —

His name is Wolfgang von Strucker, but he whips her bloody with his belt until she calls him “Master.” Evidently, he’s something of a narcissist that way. 

He smiles coldly when she screams—a sadist, too, then. 

Lovely. 

He doesn’t spread her legs and fuck her, though the prominent crotch tenting his pants tells her it’s not for lack of wanting. 

He leaves her for the night with a sloppy kiss that stings her bloodied lips and two bowls at her feet—one filled with water, the other with a curious glob of something that looks a bit like oatmeal if she squints at it hard enough. 

Hours later, she falls asleep hating the world and everything in it, praying to die before the morning comes. 

— —

Morning comes, but von Strucker doesn’t. 

Golden sunlight peeks through a prominent crack in the hardwood flooring overhead, and Wanda’s skin aches with every slight movement that pulls on her freshly-grown scabs. 

Still, she grits her teeth and mentally tamps down on the pain as she pushes herself up into a low crouching stance (though it hurts her burning muscles something awful), because she knows as well as anyone that a sitting pup is a dead one. 

On top of that, she has von Strucker’s conspicuous absence to consider. She knows he’s still there; she can _smell_ him overhead. She’s loathe to discover that the scent of him is not nearly so pungent as it was yesterday—almost as if her body’s already beginning to grow accustomed to it. 

Either way, she doesn’t dwell on it for very long. 

A gruff voice (von Strucker’s, she’s sure) cursing in German (“Miststück!” he yells) is followed promptly by a heavy _thunk_ from above, as if someone has fallen. Wanda hopes it’s von Strucker. 

A handful of seconds later, there’s a telltale creak from the stairs, and all thoughts of von Strucker flee from Wanda’s thoughts. 

There’s a person coming down the steps—someone light-footed and nimble. Not only that, but someone of prominent status—a ridiculously strong-willed beta, perhaps. (Wishful thinking on Wanda’s part.) 

The closer they get, the more their impossibly strong odor begins to invade Wanda’s personal space, clashing violently with the putrid remnants of von Strucker’s. 

This person—whoever they are—is an alpha. 

_Great_ , Wanda thinks to herself bitterly even as her bent legs tremble beneath her with the strain of holding her body aloft. _Another alpha._

Fear rises in her throat like bile, making her sick with terror. She has to bite her lower lip _hard_ to keep quiet as she forces herself to shuffle over towards the nearest grimy cement wall, away from the staircase. 

There’s no conceivable way out—at least, not that she’s managed to find—and she knows that. Nonetheless, she wants to be prepared when the mystery alpha reaches the foot of the steps. She doesn’t want to be trembling like a leaf in the middle of the basement, exposed to attack on all sides. 

At least with a wall at her back, she’ll be better able to assess the situation, and brace herself if needed. 

The wall jostles her bare shoulder more than roughly enough to hurt when she gets there, but she collapses against it with a whimper of relief like she doesn’t care either way (which, right now, isn’t at all far from the truth). 

She doesn’t hear the fleet-footed alpha as they reach the cellar floor, but Wanda knows exactly when they do. She can smell it—smell _them_ , and damn them but they smell _good_. 

Her omega positively preens as she gets her first (mostly) undiluted whiff: rich dampened soil, freshly-fallen snow on a winter’s morn, the barest tinge of gunpowder.

( _How the hell does someone smell like freshly-fallen snow on a winter morning?!_ )

The salty-sweet tang of their sweat laces the air, and Wanda can’t help wanting to lap it up like a parched kitten. 

All this, and she hasn’t even _seen_ them yet. _Pathetic_ , she chastises herself. 

A second later, they appear—or, Wanda supposes she should say, _she_ appears. 

She strikes a slight figure, lean and limber, dressed all in black—a two-piece (top and bottom) suit that clings to her womanly curves like a second skin. (Wanda has to consciously tell herself not to linger on the considerable swell of her breasts as she takes her in.) 

She stands there but two (maybe three) strides away, stares silently down at a naked and shivering Wanda on the floor with eyes a startling shade of green and an unreadable expression twisting her pale features. Her hair is a rich shade of scarlet-red, pulled back into a neat ponytail. (It looks impossibly soft.) 

Wanda can do little else but gawk back. 

Oh, and this, too: her face is spattered with blood. As Wanda watches, the woman’s tongue flickers out to catch a fresh droplet of red at the corner of her lips.

“He’s dead,” she informs Wanda flatly in an un-extraordinarily American accent. 

Wanda just gapes. This woman—this _alpha_ —is beautiful, and deadly, and Wanda finds herself both transfixed and terrified all in one. 

She doesn’t know where she finds the nerve to speak, but a moment later she hears herself choke out a question:

“A-Are you going to kill me?” The woman wordlessly tilts her head to one side as if genuinely considering it, and Wanda hastens to tack a “Ma’am?” onto the end of her query. (Maybe the use of the honorific will appease her as it did von Strucker.)

“Sokovian,” the woman says after a short pause. It isn’t really a question. “Do you speak Russian?”

Wanda resists the urge to duck her head as embarrassment colors her cheeks. “No, Ma’am, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Natasha.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My name. It’s Natasha.” With that, the woman—Natasha—closes the last couple steps between them and crouches down (though she’s careful to allow Wanda a considerable berth). “You don’t need to call me ‘Ma’am.’ And you don’t need to be sorry, either. It was just a question.”

Ice-cold fear runs rampant throughout every inch of her being, locking her aching muscles in place and chilling her from the inside out. Still, she manages a jerky nod. “O-Okay.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Wanda swallows thickly (and nearly chokes, her throat is so dry). “W-Why not?”

Natasha doesn’t miss a beat. “Because I don’t kill defenseless innocents.”

Wanda lowers her gaze deferentially, though she doesn’t at all trust it. “Okay,” she agrees meekly.

Natasha sighs quietly, like she knows that Wanda doesn’t believe her. To her credit, however, she doesn’t comment on it. “Let’s get you out of here, hm? Can you walk?”

— —

Wanda tries to prove she can stand (and therefore walk) on her own, but the moment she’s up she’s falling again (right into Natasha’s waiting arms, no less), and it becomes abundantly clear that she’s far too weak and battered to even try. 

Natasha’s arms are slender but strong, her body solid and warm against Wanda’s, and the way she’s looking down on her with the barest hint of a smirk curving her lips is more than enough to have Wanda’s face flooding with heat. 

She decides right then and there not to bother embarrassing herself with a second attempt at proving she can stand on her own, let alone walk.

“It’s alright, малышка,” Natasha murmurs, then pulls Wanda a little closer such that her face tucks neatly into the crook of Natasha’s neck. “I’ve got you.”

Wanda just hums, nuzzling the sweat-damp skin at the base of her neck and inhaling deeply despite all her better instincts cautioning her against it. (Whatever. It isn’t _her_ fault that the salty-sweet scent of Natasha’s sweat is about a million times better up close.)

Natasha chuckles from above, low and husky, her chest vibrating with the force of it. In any other context, Wanda might be ashamed at her painfully obvious wanting, but she’s too far gone to care right now. 

All she can smell is Natasha—hints of sweat and gunsmoke and someone else’s blood overlaid with something that’s entirely her own, something sweet and heady and _powerful_ beyond measure. 

She hates herself for thinking that it’s quite possibly the sweetest thing she’s ever smelled. 

— —

**NATASHA**

When Natasha first stumbles into the basement and catches sight of the small, gaunt-looking omega huddled in the rank cellar of von Strucker’s halfway house, she damn near marches herself back up the stairs and shoots him again, never mind the fact that by then he was already dead. 

She’s a pretty little thing, the omega in question, though Natasha hates herself for even thinking it. Long, chestnut brown hair falling well past her dainty shoulders. Wide, curious green-blue eyes shimmering with fear. Pinkish lips, swollen and bruised, the bottom one bleeding from a split in the middle. 

_Enough_ , she chides herself sharply. _One more predatory alpha is quite certainly the last thing that poor wounded creature needs right now_. 

The air is heavy, laced with her fear. Working her way past it is comparable to wading through quicksand.

And yet, just beneath the terror is something else—something that appeals to Natasha’s alpha like precious few things ever could: a battered omega’s vulnerability in its purest form, blistered and raw, hungering for protection and guidance.

(Somehow, this young omega’s call seems to affect her more prominently than any she’s ever felt.)

Those intelligent blue-green eyes meticulously follow her as she makes her cautious approach, conscious to keep both hands well in sight so as to avoid startling the captive omega any further. After all, she’s willing to bet that the rest of her (blood-spattered face, twin semi-automatic handguns strapped to her thighs) doesn’t make for an all that reassuring figure. 

They exchange sparse dialogue, and despite Natasha’s gentle attempts at reassurance, the girl’s terror only seems to heighten by the minute. (In hindsight, Natasha almost certainly could’ve started off with something better than “He’s dead.”)

The young omega is light in her arms— _too_ light, she thinks. Natasha aches to see her eat a proper meal. Regardless, the little puffs of warm breath she’s letting out as she nuzzles her soot-streaked face into the crook of Natasha’s neck is enough to appease her for the moment. 

What’s more, she fits snugly in Natasha’s arms like it’s natural—like she _belongs_ there. Natasha feels selfish as hell for thinking it, but she dreads the moment she’ll have to let her go. 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> Miststück | _Mishtshtook_ | bitch  
> малышка | _malishka_ | (female) baby, little one [term of endearment]
> 
> definitely wanna know your guys' thoughts here? thinking that maybe on break when i have more time i could potentially add onto this if that's something y'all would be down to read... idk dude let me know
> 
> (here's the link to my [tumblr](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/) that i just made for fic / fandom / writing stuff... feel free to come shout at me there!)


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